Vision of Love
by HardlyFatal
Summary: It's funny, how well you can see when you redefine what things mean. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: So this story is for JB Week, I've had a tough week so I forgot to post it here as well as on AO3- sorry! Hope you enjoy it :)**

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Jaime had not wanted to leave the hospital. It was where he had started this new life of his, where he had first opened his eyes and found only darkness. The hospital suite had been almost like a little apartment, with its luxurious bathroom and plush bedroom and the sunny deck off the sitting room. It was compact, sparsely furnished, and Jaime could feel his way around without worrying too much about damaging himself or, worse, the things around him. More than one fragile thing had been smashed beyond repair thanks to his clumsy fumblings.

But the day had inevitably come when he had to be discharged; the Citadel was not an apartment building, and with the exception of his blindness, he had recuperated his former state of health. Or perhaps even better— the vigorous program of physical therapy had given way, over the weeks, to fitness training, and by the time he'd left his room for good, he'd scarcely fit into his clothing, body bursting the seams of his shirt and trousers with new dimensions of muscle.

He'd wanted to go back to his own home in King's Landing, but the family had deemed it inappropriate for his safety, with all the steps and angles. He'd tried next to stay with Tyrion, but knew it wouldn't be permitted the moment the words left his mouth, thanks to the family's horror at Tyrion's perennial drunkenness and ceaseless parade of whores.

Jaime knew better than to ask for Cersei to provide any tender loving care.

So that left either Casterly Rock or Castamere. His first inclination was to go to Casterly Rock, but it belonged to the old Jaime, the one who could see, the one who'd grown up there, the one whose family had something to do with him beyond dutiful inquiries to his private nurse about his condition. In one fell swoop, he'd lost anything that gave him value, and now he was pensioned off like an old retainer after many years of faithful service.

The winner by default was Castamere. Tywin had acquired it after a canny and half-unethical maneuver involving the stock exchange and bribery, and its owners, the Reynes, subsequently drowned in a flood of bad publicity and demolished reputation. Jaime had been there exactly once, and recalled it as a place of modest size, its only claim to excellence being its location on the rock-strewn shore of the Sunset Sea.

After almost four months in residence there, Jaime was developing love and hate for the place in equal measure. He liked that it was small enough that he couldn't get too terribly lost; even if he miscalculated counting his steps, it was easy for shouts to be heard from one side to the other, so Bronn could find him. And the gardens were reputed to be magnificent. Jaime woke each morning and slept each night to the sound of waves crashing upon the shore, fresh sea air filling his lungs. Ironically, he felt the best he had since his childhood, with the one notable exception.

On the other hand, he had been exiled there, swept beneath a gold-and-crimson carpet so as to not shame the family any more than he already had done. With a continent between him and King's Landing, everyone could forget the unpleasantness Jaime had forced upon them and go back to their prosperous lives.

And all it would cost was discarding Jaime like a broken toy.

"Stop moping and go outside, you glum cunt," came the dulcet tones of his nurse. Jaime couldn't imagine what had inspired Bronn to go into health care, because he had the worst bedside manner of anyone Jaime had ever met, and that included his sister, which was saying something. "Go out to the garden. I'll bring your lunch when it's ready."

Heavy footfalls, growing fainter: Bronn had left the room. Jaime thought of ignoring his directive, but it was just easier to comply. Why fight it? Wasn't like he had anything else to do.

So he left the library, counting the steps from the leather sofa he'd been sitting on until he reached the glass doors leading to what he knew was a wide, shady veranda. A cautious toe explored the floor before him until he found the single step down. Five more paces, more floor exploration, and he had descended the half-dozen steps to the plush lawn that stretched between the house and the garden.

He inhaled deeply, lifting his face to the sun while he thought about what he was smelling. Fresh mown grass, flowers, and something dusty— perhaps churned-up gravel?

Fifty-seven steps and he had entered the garden. Fine-raked pebbles crunched under his feet as he followed the path for eighteen steps. An outstretched hand felt for petals, but found a thorn instead; that plus the unrelenting smell told him he was in the rose arbor. The stink of the roses was so cloying that he hurried to pass through it, heading for the tinkling splash of the fountain at the heart of the garden.

The scent of it grew ever-stronger in Jaime's nose. He reached out and encountered cool marble, fingers running up a long, rounded bit of stone until it flowed into a larger one, and from there, the unmistakable shape of a perfectly formed breast, complete with erect nipple. He realized he was groping the statue that formed the centerpiece of the fountain, a scarf-draped nymph pouring water from an amphora clutched in her lissome arms. Jaime gave the nipple a playful tweak and moved on to trailing his fingertips in the water cascading from the vessel.

As he walked past the fountain, the smell of the water and the lily pads and the faintest hint of pond scum underlying it all receded. Twenty-three paces, and he'd reached the knot garden, where the medicinal herbs had grown since the time of the Targaryens and probably even earlier. Their smell rose so sharply that it hurt his sinuses and he hurried the thirty-one steps it took to escape that section, to the meadow where wildflowers sprawled, a riot of color lost to Jaime forever.

He liked to eat in the meadow, grasses and flowers rising as tall as he was, when seated, to cocoon him in a world that swayed and whispered with the wind as honeybees zoomed around. It was sixty-four paces to the exact center of the meadow, but he hadn't gone more than eleven of them before crashing into something that was not supposed to have been there. A thud sounded, then a series of clangs as something tipped over and spilled its metallic contents. Jaime landed draped over the object, palms coming down hard on whatever had fallen out of it, and he began to swear viciously.

Pain radiated up from his wrists and knees, and he was certain he'd bruised a rib when he landed on the thing. He tried to scramble away, or up, but his footing was insecure, with things sliding beneath him. Anger rose in him to mix with the pain, and he found himself shouting obscenities in enraged frustration.

"Ser!" exclaimed a voice, female, pleasing to the ear— if Jaime weren't on the verge of killing someone or himself in fury. "Stop— stop thrashing around like that, you're just— stop!"

There was command in the voice, and Jaime had been well-trained to heel by father and military both. He froze, chest heaving with exertion from both trying to stand and the cussing, and then hands, large and gentle and warm, covered his own. He sat back on his heels, feeling precariously perched, and permitted her to take his hands and raise them. He presumed she was inspecting the palms for damage.

"How did you trip over the wheelbarrow?" she asked, a fingertip tracing over an abrasion on the heel of one hand. "Didn't you see it?"

He flashed her his widest, meanest grin. "With what?" he asked, silken menace in his voice. Woman or no, he felt a near-overwhelming urge to strike her.

She tsked at him, clearly thinking he was being obtuse. "With your eyes, of course, you—"

Then she stopped, sudden as a fall off a cliff, and sucked in a gasp. For a protracted moment, there was nothing but the far-off chittering of a squirrel fighting for a nut. He knew she was taking in the scars pocking and slashing over his face, the clear green of his eyes having gone milky, and how he was probably not 'looking' at her like a sighted person would. He was probably 'staring' at her ear or over her shoulder, he thought bitterly, looking daft and feeble.

"Oh," she breathed at last. "Oh, _no_. I'm… I'm…"

"Stupid as well as careless?" Jaime snarled, wrenching his hands from her grip.

" _Sorry_ ," she finished. "I didn't know— no one told me—" She stumbled to a halt, and then, "I'm sorry."

Jaime wasn't particularly interested in her apologies. He tried to stand and, yet again, slid and slipped and gave up in defeat.

"Wait," she said. Clinking of metal told him she was standing— no problem for _her_ to navigate the heap of whatever they were ensconced upon— and then those same warm hands had slid under his arms. One soft exhalation of breath by his ear, and he was hoisted up, then frog-marched a few feet over until the soft crackle of wildflowers beneath his feet said he was standing on regular old meadow once more.

"Who _are_ you?" he demanded, prodding at his sore ribs and hissing in reaction to the bright flare of pain it caused. She was unbelievably strong for a woman, and though he could smell the exertion of her work on her, there was an underlying scent of the sea as well, all saltwater and fresh air.

"The gardener," she replied absently, and then she was grabbing his hands again, thumbs rubbing over his palms. This time he could tell there was wetness there— he was bleeding.

"You're not the gardener," he replied. He wrenched his hands free for the second time and rubbed them over the thighs of his trousers. "Clegane has worked here for decades. I might be blind, but even I can tell a wench from an old man."

"Uncle Conor had an accident and hurt his legs. With both Gregor and Sandor off at the war, he asked if I'd come and help until he was better." She paused, then added, with an edge to her voice, "And I am not a wench."

Jaime barked out a laugh, though he couldn't tell why. Nothing was funny. "You're a wench if I say you're a wench. Now help me to the edge of the meadow so I can count my way back inside."

She cupped his elbow and tugged him solicitously along. He could tell when his feet left the meadow and trod on the pebbled path once more, but she didn't leave him to his own efforts, continuing to guide him. His stomach growled again, and he signed in resignation; Bronn wouldn't feed him until he was cleaned up, and that could take upwards of an hour, depending on how extensive the lacerations on his hands and knees were.

"What was in the wheelbarrow?" he asked, trying to jerk his elbow from her grasp, but she would not permit his escape, merely recapturing it the moment he broke free, persistent but never anything but gentle. Jaime could not help but compare her to Cersei; his sister's sharp little fingers would have pressed displeased bruises into his arm by now, furious at the mess and noise and inconvenience he'd caused.

"All my garden tools," she replied, sounding abashed. "Trowels, cultivators, forks, spades, pruners—"

"Yes, I know what garden tools are," Jaime said testily. "Now more intimately than ever." He was just lucky he hadn't impaled a hand on one of the forks; the last thing he needed was to lose one of them in addition to his sight.

The smells and sounds informed him of their location just as they had on his trip into the garden, and despite his ire, he couldn't help but reach out to trail his fingertips over the plants within reach as they passed by.

They'd just reached the rose garden when he heard the crunching footsteps of another person, and then, "Fookin' hell. I leave you alone for fifteen fookin' minutes, you cunt, and—"

"No," the woman said, sharply. "It's not his fault, it's mine. I didn't know that— I didn't know, and left something in the way, and he tripped."

Bronn was miraculously silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Let's get you cleaned up. If we hurry, you can eat lunch before it's stone cold."

But instead of grabbing one of Jaime's hands and plunking it on his arm so Jaime could walk with him, there was the sound of footsteps circling Jaime and then two hands in his back.

"Walk ahead of me," said Bronn. "I'll tell you when you're about to fall up the steps."

"You'd better," Jaime muttered, and left without another word to the woman, Clegane's… niece? She'd called him uncle, though that could just be an honorary title.

"Who the hells was that?" Bronn asked after they left the rose garden for the lawn.

"Said Clegane was hurt and couldn't come, so she was working for him until he was well again," Jaime said, then gave voice to his curiosity. "What's she like?"

The nurse gave a filthy-sounding laugh and said, "You must be desperate if you're interested in that one."

Jaime's already-sour mood took a turn downward. "I can't fucking _see_. I didn't know her before, when I could see. Is it unreasonable to want to know how a stranger looks? Are you going to think I want to fuck every new woman I meet?"

They'd gone twenty-six of the fifty-seven steps from rose garden to veranda steps, so he moved away from Bronn's guiding hands and began to stride toward the house like he used to, with confidence, devoid of apprehension that he'd maim himself with a misstep.

"Jaime…" Bronn said from nearby, having effortlessly caught up to him. He said no more, but his tone was as close to an apology as Jaime was going to get. Jaime felt a touch at his elbow but he shifted away.

"Leave," he said coldly.

"Fine, Your Highness," Bronn muttered. Jaime soon heard the rustling of his footsteps on the lawn as he stalked away, likely just as disgusted with Jaime as Jaime was with him.

He ended up being only two paces off in his counting, having to grope just a little to find the railing and climb the steps. Once inside, he made his way to the bathroom, where he soon had the hot water roaring into the tub as he stripped off. Climbing in, the water stung his cuts but he didn't care. Not about that, or Bronn, or the gardener woman, or anything else.

At all.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaime didn't meet the woman again for several days; indeed, he had no intention of ever speaking with her again. But when he heard her footsteps approaching as she crunched over the paving gravel while he was having breakfast on the veranda, he couldn't exactly stand up and walk away. Even he was not that rude.

"Excuse me," she began haltingly. "I—"

"What's your name?" he interrupted. He was rude enough for that, however.

Silence; he wondered if she were offended or just surprised.

Eventually, she said, "Brienne Tarth."

"Hm. You from there?"

"Yes. And going back when Uncle Conor is well enough to do the gardening once more."

"What happened to ol' Clegane, anyway?"

She paused again, and Jaime desperately wished he could see her expression, have some clue as to her response. Was she amused or offended by his breezy reply? The utter quiet gave him no hint at all.

"He fell down the steps and broke both his legs," was her response at long last. It will be at least two months until he is up and around again." Another pause. "I wanted to apologize again—"

"Forget it." Jaime certainly was trying to. His palms and knees no longer hurt, and Bronn had informed him that the bruising was well on its way to healing, having faded to a magnificent motley of blue, yellow, and green. "Is that all?"

More silence; was she puzzling him out, or shoring up her temper? He almost wished she'd yell at him, as he was rather in the mood for a good argument, and gods help her if she had that pitying tone, as used to one of particular tragedy or idiocy, when she finally replied.

"No," she said tightly, and he grinned; she wasn't quite yelling, but the edge to her voice told him he'd angered her. Good . Why be alone in his anger when he could take her with him?

"I had an idea for a… different kind of garden," she continued after a second. "Something small in scale, like the knot garden, and I wanted your permission to do it."

Unwillingly, Jaime was intrigued. "What do you mean by 'different'?"

"I—" Pause. "I was hoping—" Pause. "I wanted to—"

Jaime sighed; that was apparently all she needed to finally expel the words.

"It's a secret," she blurted. "A surprise, for when it's done."

He burst into laughter. She must be quite stupid; poor Clegane, saddled with a monstrous elder son, a sullen younger, and this moron of a niece. "Woman, I can't fucking see . Everything is a surprise to me. It doesn't matter if it's the rarest orchid in the bloody world, or a bog-standard shrub. I guarantee it will be a surprise."

More silence. Grudgingly, Jaime thought she must have true fortitude if she hadn't begun shouting at him by this point. Stupid she might be, but with exquisite control over her temper. Hm . Seeing what it took to finally snap her tether could be a worthy challenge; he needed some sort of diversion from the black monotony of his new life.

"If you would be so kind as to give me the benefit of the doubt, I promise it will be a pleasant surprise," she said at last, the words sounding like they were being forced past gritted teeth.

"Well, why not?" Jaime said airily, knowing it would stoke her ire. She seemed a serious sort, so the more frivolous he could act, the more likely she would explode. "Will it cost me a fortune? Will my father be beggared by the expense?"

"…no."

"Pity. I'd have liked to see—" He stopped abruptly, hating to use the word even metaphorically. "I would have enjoyed knowing my father was receiving an enormous bill for something that will in no way serve as an investment toward increasing his wealth or power."

Especially now since Jaime was unable to serve as the golden heir to be trotted about and used for Tywin's purposes. Not only failing to contribute, but being an active waste of money? Jaime could think of nothing better.

"You… are not fond of your father," she ventured, sounding puzzled, as if she could not understand how someone could be at odds with a parent. She'd probably grown up with two parents who applauded every time she shit in the privy instead of her nappy and left no doubt in her mind that she was appreciated. To hells with her, then.

"No, woman, I'm not fond of my father." He punctuated his words by snatching the napkin from his lap and tossing it to the table, uncaring if it landed in his half-emptied plate or not.

If he thought that would send her scurrying off, he was mistaken.

"Why not?" she asked, sounding naive and very young. Then, adamantly, "And don't call me 'woman'."

"I have to call you something," Jaime replied. "You are a woman, aren't you? Or— how old are you, anyway? Perhaps 'girl' would be closer to the truth?"

"You could always call me 'Brienne'," she said blandly. "Since it happens to be my actual name."

Hah . Jaime grinned, suddenly enjoying himself. "Or I could call you 'darling'," he continued. "No? What about 'sweetheart'? 'Apple of my eye'?" He snapped his finger as inspiration hit. "How about 'my beauty'?"

"No," she said in a tone as frigid as winter. "Not that one."

It felt as if the balmy summer temperature had instantly dropped twenty degrees. There was a story behind that reaction, to be sure. Jaime felt the bit between his teeth, wanted to pelt her with questions, opened his mouth to start the barrage… but something stopped him. Abruptly, he recalled Bronn's scornful comment the day he'd fallen over Brienne's wheelbarrow: You must be desperate if you're interested in that one.

There must be something wrong with her, something that compromised her looks, and if she were sensitive about being called a beauty, he'd wager good money she'd been bullied about it in her youth. Children were horrible little goblins who liked nothing more than finding the soft spots behind the chinks in one's armor, and hadn't he spent his life protecting his brother from those who thought to amuse themselves at Tyrion's expense?

Suddenly, his antagonism toward the woman drained away, and he was left feeling hollow and sad, for her, for Tyrion… for himself, even, because even he'd had his share of cruelty as a boy: schoolmates tormenting him for being so 'pretty', so wealthy, so well-born, so close to his sister, for having a dwarf for a brother.

It hadn't been too vicious, Jaime being handy with his fists and thus teaching his would-be tormentors respect with blackened eyes and chipped teeth, but he'd known he wouldn't get in trouble. Tywin would only have been proud of him ensuring that no one laughed at a Lannister. He couldn't imagine what it was like to not feel able to defend one's self, either by having a less pugnacious nature or a parent who would not support fighting back.

"Alright," he therefore said, his voice for once devoid of mockery or sarcasm. "Not that one, then."

"Thank you," she muttered, almost inaudibly.

They fell into yet another silence. Jaime realized for the first time— how had it taken him this long?— how many pauses could be found in the course of a conversation when one could not rely on sight to fill in the gaps in speech. He was used to putting his hands in his pockets, crossing his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other… but also observing those same mannerisms in others, gauging their mood and emphasis by their gestures and shifting expressions. Without that ability, everything felt hideously awkward.

"Yes," he blurted at last, more to have something— anything— to say than because he gave a damn about her secret surprise. "Do what you like with the garden."

"Really?" Breathless again, she was, but with a girlish eagerness that was really quite charming.

Jaime found himself grinning despite himself. "Yes, really."

"Thank you! You'll— I think— it will be really good, I promise!"

It was a bit of a shock, for her to turn so vocal— he'd just gotten used to her taciturn ways, but he took it in stride. He had no idea how to answer her unprecedented enthusiasm, however, so he ended up saying rather lamely, "I'm sure it will be."

A footstep, then another, and he felt her presence right by his side.

"Thank you," she said again, and then there was a fleeting touch on his forearm, exposed by his rolled-back cuff. It was there-and-gone in the space of a heartbeat, but he felt it like someone had touched a lit match to his skin.

"You're welcome," he said numbly, but she was already walking away, her feet crunching on the gravel once more.

She was a toucher, one of those people who couldn't have a conversation without making some physical connection between herself and the other person. Jaime had seen it over and over again in the course of his life, usually in women, but there was the occasional man who indulged as well.

Some men, like Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell, did it much as Brienne had— the lightest press of fingertips to a wrist or knee— but others used the hard shoulder grip or punch to the bicep in a hail-fellow-well-met manner that had, frankly, always set his teeth on edge. He hated when people presumed they had the right to put their hands on him in any way; only family claimed that honor, and they only on the rarest, most special occasions.

Jaime slumped in his chair and waited for the affront and revulsion to appear, but… it didn't. He wasn't offended by her presumption, wasn't repelled by the lack of space between them. It seemed clear that she was without guile, had nothing to gain by it, wasn't trying to manipulate or use him. She was just… warm. Friendly. Kind.

If his siblings had been there, this was the point where he'd exchange glances full of mocking and derision with them, amused by her simplicity and stodgy lack of humor. Cersei would smirk, eyes gleaming with malice as she pondered ways to make the girl pay for daring to demand something of a Lannister, to touch a Lannister with her big rough gardener's hands. And Tyrion would outright laugh and wonder if she'd hurt herself falling off the turnip truck she had so clearly arrived on.

He then surprised himself by feeling the unwelcome nudge of not only conscience but— miracle of miracles— protectiveness. It was cruel to make fun of the girl for doing nothing more than being enthusiastic about something so wholesome. The fact that she hadn't yet become so jaded that such enthusiasm was fodder for jokes was something rare to him, made precious by the very singularity of its nature.

"What did she want, then?" asked Bronn from where Jaime estimated him to be standing in the tall glass doors leading from the sitting room to the veranda.

"Permission to do something to the garden," Jaime replied absently, still 'staring' in the direction she'd gone.

"Do what to the garden?" Bronn asked. A clink, metal against china, and Jaime knew the nurse was removing the forgotten place setting before him.

"I have no idea. She won't tell me." He couldn't have stopped the grin that spread across his face if he tried. "It's a surprise."


	3. Chapter 3

It took some weeks for Brienne's surprise to be ready.

Jaime bumped into her in the garden every few days and always inquired as to its progress, but the answer was always "just fine, thank you!" with no hint as to what she was doing. In that time, she'd been fastidious in keeping her tools and the wheelbarrow off the garden's main path. In fact, she'd taken to raking the graveled pathway, according to Bronn, so there were no clumps or divots that might trip him up.

That was… kind. Unexpected. And welcome, to his surprise. When was the last time someone went out of their way for him? Even when he could see, his life had been one of answering the demands of others, not having anyone fulfill any needs of his.

She'd also asked solicitously as to his health each time, concern clear in her voice about the state of the cuts and bruises he'd acquired thanks to her. The third such time she'd interrogated him about how he was healing, he'd surprised both her and himself by reaching out and grasping her wrist.

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "Really. It was very minor, what happened, and an accident. Unless you planned on maiming me?"

It took her a moment to recognize the teasing in his voice and how he was grinning at her, but when she did, she huffed at him.

"You know very well I did not," she snapped, and pulled her wrist from the bracelet of his fingers.

Jaime grinned wider, pleased to have made her drop the façade of good manners. He'd much rather honesty, rude as it might be, than lying dishonesty. He realized it was fun to tease her, and easy.

He found himself in the garden more often, following the sounds she made as she went about her day, until he had arrived at her location.

It had unnerved her at first, for him to find her almost every day, and then just… stay. Sometimes standing, usually sitting, after asking her to point out a nice shady spot nearby.

"I don't understand what you're getting out of this," she protested one day. "Listening to me can't be that interesting!"

"Oh, it's not," Jaime said. "But it's better than sitting by myself most of the day, wouldn't you agree?"

She paused in her shoveling. "By yourself? What about that man?"

That man? Then he realized who she meant. "Ah, Bronn? My nurse. Couldn't hold a conversation in a bucket. Or at least, not on a topic I want to discuss for more than a minute at a time."

The sound of shoveling resumed. "What does he want to talk about?"

"The merits of various ladies of his past. He likes to rate them."

" What? "

Oh, she was appalled, and Jaime couldn't keep from laughing, even as he could practically hear her blood pressure escalate.

"Yes, on a scale of one through seven. No one has yet achieved a perfect score; highest was a five, I believe he said."

"That's… that's terrible," she said at last. "I wonder how he'd like it, if someone were to rate him?"

She began to shovel again, and every dig of the tool into the soil had an angry sort of thud to it. Then, suddenly, she spoke. "It's terrible that a man would reduce women to numbers based on how pretty they are."

He'd just been waiting for her to make the obvious mistake.

"Oh, his rating isn't for their looks," he said casually, though inside he was gleeful at her presumed reaction.

"Then on what?"

"On how they perform in bed." He paused for effect. Her horrified silence was everything he could have wished for. "Specifically, how well they—"

" Do not finish that sentence ," she interrupted, her voice one of command. His old drill sergeant could not have done better. He settled for laughing.

"Anyway," she muttered after a while, "I wonder what sort of score the women would have given him ."

"The way he talks, he knows his way around a bedroom, so I'd wager he merits at least a four," Jaime said breezily. "How about you? How would you rate your lovers?"

Another silence, this one heavy with resentment and mortification as well as fury.

"C'mon, darling, we're all friends here," he coaxed, finding he actually was interested in hearing about it. What sort of man would go for such a big bruiser of a woman? With such a mulish personality?

Though he had to admit, she was a conscientious, uncomplaining, and hard worker. And he had personal knowledge of the dichotomy of her, how she was both strong and gentle at the same time. Her manners were excellent, which of course he took terrible advantage of, and she never lost her temper with him, even when he was at his most annoying.

"I haven't had any lovers," she replied shortly. "No one to rate." When he didn't respond, she continued in a remarkably angry tone, "Aren't you going to say some sort of platitude like 'your prince is out there somewhere' or 'plenty of fish in the sea'?"

"Wench, do I seem like the type of man to spout platitudes?" he shot back. Was she dense? Anyone could tell within minutes of meeting him that he was the last person to heap that sort of bullshit on anyone. Lannisters were not precisely known for their efforts at making others feel better.

No answer, just a loud thunk as the shovel met the ground once more.

"You must dislike my name very much," she commented eventually, "if you can't bring yourself to say it, ever."

He rather liked it, in fact, but it was more fun to call her something that made her grind her teeth. Jaime hummed, thoughtful.

"Brrrrrriennnnnne," he said at last, more of a purr than anything else.

"Stop that," she commanded, and he almost jolted in surprise. It had come out breathless and sort of shivery, a silver-gilt thread of excitement running through it, and for the first time he realized that it was possible she was attracted to him. That she wasn't just putting up with him, enduring his jokes and insults out of pity or, as he'd started to suspect, the same loneliness that plagued him. Could it be that she liked him?

It had been a long time since Jaime had been the object of someone's desire, at least that he knew of. He'd been parted from Cersei by the war, denied furlough after furlough by superior officers he'd driven to near-madness, and then when he'd been injured and discharged, it wasn't as if his sister would have anything more to do with him. Not blind and scarred, for how would he be able to admire her if he couldn't see her?

Cersei's looks being the only appealing thing about her, without their influence on his too-susceptible libido, Jaime soon realized that she might be the most repulsive person he'd ever met. Putting distance between them had been the only positive to come out of his exile to the far side of the continent.

And with the exception of the servants of Castamere— there was a housekeeper, a cook, and a maid in addition to the monumental gardener— he hadn't had contact with a woman since leaving the Citadel. A dozen scenarios ran through his head, all of them culminating in sex. He'd surely like to have some again. He had the impression from Bronn that Brienne was no looker, but what did that matter to Jaime now? She was young and healthy, and since she'd never been with a man, clean.

They could have a nice tidy little affair. And if things went south, well, she'd be gone soon enough, once her uncle was on the mend and could resume his work.

The idea cheered him and consumed his thoughts the rest of the day as he contemplated how to make it happen. All his flirting skills had been employed by a man who could see his target, could gauge how his efforts were being received. He'd have to take a different tack, now, and instead of filling him with despair, as most things did when he realized he'd have to completely relearn them, it felt more like a challenge, something to pit himself against.

And so, the next time he saw her, several days later, he had designed a fool-proof plan to carefully, gradually coax her to fuck him. Excitement filled him as he moved through the garden in the direction of rubber wheels on gravel.

"You'll tell me when I'm about to be assaulted by the wheelbarrow, this time?" he called as he made his way to her, stopping a safe bit away.

Even from that distance, he heard her sigh of exasperation, and couldn't repress a grin. It's too easy, he thought.

Brienne approached and the wheels-on-gravel sound came again. "It's well out of your way," she muttered as she stalked off, leaving him to follow as he would.

When he reached her work area, he asked what she was doing.

She didn't answer right away, but drew in a deep breath before bursting out with, "The new part of the garden is just about ready. Would you like to see— I mean, would you like to go there?"

She'd caught herself in several such blunders over the month they'd known each other, always correcting them with an air of concern and embarrassment, exquisitely worried that she'd hurt and upset him. That, too, was a novel experience; in Tywin Lannister's home, if you couldn't bear unkind words and insensitivity, you toughened up. There was no alternative.

But he was perversely charmed by the care she took with his supposed feelings. He was beginning to see that beyond her mannerly exterior, and the flashes of temper she displayed when he managed to irritate her enough, she was… decent.

He'd met a few such people before, had always been confused by them— didn't they realize how badly they'd be taken advantage of? Their patron saint, Ned Stark, had led his family into chaos and ruin because of an overabundance of decency and honor. It had always seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Well, that had been the old Jaime, in his old world of successful, beautiful people. The new Jaime was hidden away in the ass-end of Westeros so he didn't embarrass anyone, or make them uncomfortable, and bearing the brunt of his family's obsession with image had him wondering if maybe decency and honor were worth a little of the trouble.

"Of course I would," he replied. "Hearing you bang away for so long… what can you possibly have been doing? I'm dying of curiosity."

"I hope you like it!" she said, eager and excited in contrast to her usual more taciturn manner, and Jaime couldn't help grinning at it. "Do— do you want to hold on to me, so I can lead you there?"

Now she sounded shy, like she was taking a big risk but powering through her timidity. Oh, she was a darling; he was touched in spite of himself.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, however, teasing her. She was always so serious. It took quite a bit of effort to amuse her, and he cursed his inability to see if she were smiling. He had the idea that she was a woman who smiled rather than laughed, and how was he to know if she were doing that or not? "You might lead me into the ocean, or maybe into another wheelbarrow."

"Don't you trust me?" she asked, lightly, not meaning anything by it, but he found that… yes, he did. He'd known her a scant month, and he trusted her more than his father or sister. He knew her hands were safe. He could place himself in them.

"Yes," he answered honestly. "I do."

For some reason, he had the feeling she was smiling at him, and wished with all his heart he could see it.

"Good," she said softly.

She took his hand and put it on her forearm. He slid it up until he could grasp her elbow from behind and felt a tremor run through her.

This seducing-her business might be easier than I thought. He added to his mental list that he should lavish caresses upon her, if they could affect her so much.

She led him through the knot garden, past the fountain, and into the rose garden. He tended to avoid it, because of the too-heady fragrance of the flowers, so the change was immediately noticeable; it was far less pungent than it had been before.

"Well," she began, an anxious note to her voice. "I decided to take out half of the rose garden, since I've seen you avoid it most of the time. And I noticed that you like to feel and touch things as you walk along. And we're about the same height. So I made the boxes high enough for you to reach them without bending."

She took his hand from her arm and brought it to the first plant. "This is lamb's ear."

It had thick leaves covered in fuzz, like velvet, that made the pads of his fingers tingle as she drew him away from it and on to the next.

"And this is floss flower."

Clusters of blooms, round, about the size of a gold dragon, attached to a sturdy central stem. Instead of petals, soft furry nubs grew in a dome.

She took his wrist and led him across the path to another box. "Knifophia." It felt like a chimney brush, stiff and bristly.

"Stipa pennata." Halfway between feathers and hair, long and silky, Jaime ran it through his fingers over and over.

"Globe amaranth." The bloom was perfectly round and fluffy, with ruffled petals that tickled his palm when he cupped it.

"Larkspur." It was a tall column of flowers thickly clustered around a central stem, and a memory stirred; weren't they a deep, almost sapphire, blue?

As Jaime explored it with his fingertips, his brain raced. What was happening? Everything she'd presented, thus far, was something that could be felt with the hands instead of viewed.

Before he could pursue that line of thought, she was tugging him along to another plant.

"This is anjelica." It was fluffy, ball-shaped, and the scent of licorice rose from it when its petals shifted. "You can eat it."

She paused, and he realized she was waiting for him to taste it. Plucking one of the tiny buds, he put it on his tongue and blinked as the flavor of anise spread through his mouth.

"Next is bee balm." Long, intricately folded, when Jaime rubbed it, it released a minty smell. "You can eat that, too."

He duly put it in his mouth and, yes, mint. It melded pleasantly with the taste of the anjelica.

"Borage," she announced at the next one. He heard the sound of tearing plant fibers, and then she was placing some blossoms in his hand. "Try it."

Cautiously, Jaime put the petals in his mouth.

"Cucumber," he said in pleased surprise. It did not go well with the previous two, however, and he smacked his lips a bit as he tried to work up some saliva to rinse away the combined flavors.

He saw where this was going, what she had done, and a burgeoning sense of amazement had him feeling… he wasn't sure what he was feeling, actually, but it was… big.

"I won't tell you what this next one is," said Brienne, but she sounded excited for him to discover it as she placed a small, pointed leaf with jagged edges in his hand.

More flavors. He was going to have to brush his teeth for ten solid minutes, when this was over. He sniffed the leaf she gave him, but it only smelled faintly minty. Popping it in his mouth, he still tasted nothing but greenness, but when he bit down…

"Chocolate mint?" he asked, a bit amazed. "It's— it's good."

When the taste faded, the anise and cucumber remained, and they were not prime with the chocolate, but…

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" She sounded thrilled that he liked it.

"Wench, you are full of surprises."

Despite the less-than-pleasant flavor in his mouth, he was aware he was smiling, widely, stupidly, but he couldn't seem to stop. An odd sensation was starting to grow within him, starting in his belly and spreading outward.

She took his arm and began to tug him along.

"There's more?" he asked, incredulous. This was already so much, more than he'd expected, certainly more than he deserved, especially since… his plan to seduce her crashed and burned, leaving him feeling ashamed.

"One more type of plant," she said, happily unaware of his inner turmoil, though she did seem to notice his subdued manner. "If— if you're not bored. If you are, we can— another time, or if you don't want— at all—"

"I'm not bored," he told her immediately, and forced a smile. She shouldn't feel like he didn't appreciate her efforts just because he was having a rare attack of guilt. "I can't imagine what you have next for me."

"There's not much wind today, but I'll…" Brienne trailed off and Jaime stood in silence as she stepped away from him. There was nothing for a few seconds, and then came the silvery whisper of long grasses sliding against each other.

After a minute, she stopped moving them.

"And then there's this…"

A series of faint woody sounds came next.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Reeds!" she announced. "And one more."

This time, it was a series of hollow thunks, almost musical, and he ventured a guess before she could reveal what it was. "Bamboo?"

"Yes!" She sounded delighted that he figured it out.

He was delighted, too, but for a vastly different reason. What Brienne had done… she'd spent the better part of a month, working long, hard hours in addition to the regular tending needed by the grounds, to give him an entire garden of things he could actually appreciate.

"There are many other things here, too," she was going on. "Not just the ones I pointed out to you. Nasturtium, honeysuckle, snapdragon, balloon flower, hens and chicks, lacebark pine… everything in this part of the garden, you can enjoy by feel or touch or taste."

By the time she finished, he had realized a few things. One, that she was feeling shy about what she'd done; two, that her shyness was adorable; three, that no one else had ever gone to this amount of care and trouble to please him before; and four, she was absolutely wonderful.

Oh, and five: in no way did he come close to deserving her efforts.


	4. Chapter 4

When Bronn learned the new part of the garden was done, he insisted Jaime give him a guided tour. Jaime thought it was pointless, since he only recalled a handful of the names Brienne had told him and likely would apply them to the wrong plants, but to shut the other man up, he could just make up some names…

They walked down the paths in silence, broken only by Jaime's voice when he provided the name (real or otherwise) of each plant. To his surprise, Bronn knew what quite a few of them were, and even corrected Jaime when he gave some nonsense name he'd made up.

"Ah, I see she planted some emerald-and-gold," commented Bronn eventually.

"What?" asked Jaime. "There's a plant named emerald-and-gold?"

"Yeah, right here." Bronn took Jaime's hand and guided it to the waxy leaves with the finely pointed tips. She'd called it something fortunei with a voice that had gone cautious, and he'd had the feeling she was hedging her words for some reason. He couldn't plumb the meaning, then, but now… she knew the other name. There was no way she didn't. And there was no way she'd included it by accident.

A breathless, achy feeling in his chest bloomed. She was too sweet to be believed. There had to be some trick, some hidden flaw about her, some insurmountable fly that could never be dug out of the ointment.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked.

"What?" Bronn replied, his confusion palpable.

"There's got to be something wrong with her," Jaime clarified. "There's no way she can be so…"

He trailed off, lacking words he was willing to use in front of the nurse. Wonderful, adorable, sweet… beautiful. Somehow, without ever laying eyes on her, he found her profoundly beautiful.

"Good," he settled for saying. "And she's not pretending. She really is just… good. So there must be something terribly, horribly wrong." Bronn didn't answer. "Tell me what it is."

"She's ugly," Bronn said at last. "Fookin' hideous, in fact. Big square face, with a jaw like a lantern. Busted nose that sits halfway to her ear, crooked and flattened, and lips that look like she's been punched by one of her cousins. And her teeth… she could eat an apple through a picket fence with them."

"Is that all?" Jaime asked, vaguely aware that his fists had clenched, stomach drawn up tight. But instead of revulsion, it was anger he was feeling, on her behalf, for being maligned so heartlessly. "Is there more?

Bronn snorted. "You know she's tall like her cousins. She's also built like them; I've never seen a body like that on a woman before. Shoulders bigger than yours, straight down into her hips. No tits at all. No shape at all. Huge hands like a man, too."

"Anything else?" prodded Jaime. Cold was spreading through him, and fury that she'd had such a poor hand dealt to her. She deserved better than to be so homely; her outside should match her inside, should be just as lovely.

"Freckles ," said Bronn. "Everywhere . And if that wasn't bad enough, she blushes like she's having apoplexy, and the red clashes with the freckles, and… she does have pretty eyes, I'll grant her that, but… mate, she's gruesome." He paused. "You can't be thinking of… Jaime, you can't want her."

Maybe he could want her. It was seeming more and more likely, in fact. He knew, now, why she'd been so averse to his calling her 'my beauty', why she was so shy. Except she wasn't shy; there had been enough incidents where her true nature had slipped past her inhibitions and he'd been confronted by the real Brienne: feisty, passionate, temperamental. Just like a Lannister, in fact.

Yet she wasn't Lannister-like in all ways; there was a circumspection to her that was distinctly not like his hot-tempered family, a consideration foreign to them. Even when he'd driven her to madness with his teasing, she wasn't unkind, always mindful of the effect her words would have.

"Can I not?"

He left Bronn sputtering in confusion, counting his paces out of the garden and into the meadow, where he sat down, leaning back on his hands, and let the wildflowers sway against him, their petals silken against his cheek.

Was it wise to be infatuated with one's gardener? Probably not. Was it wise to be infatuated with a woman whose sole claim to beauty was an apparently fine pair of eyes and a soul that gleamed brighter than gold? Whose looks would be a lightning rod for mockery and derision? Absolutely not.

Was he infatuated with her in spite of it all?

Without a doubt.

.

* * *

.

He ignored Bronn's oft-expressed disbelief and warnings of dire imprecations and continued to spend most of his days with Brienne in the garden; sometimes talking with her, sometimes lazing back on some soft patch of ground and snoozing while she labored nearby (to her irritation), sometimes just breathing in the fresh air and listening to everything around him.

His attempts at flirting were poorly received, at first, met with frank disbelief, until he changed tactics. He was used to society women, red in tooth and claw, and the rapid-fire pace and pointed barbs inherent to them were more like an issuing of a challenge to the other party: are you man enough to survive an encounter with me?

But Brienne was no kestrel, no lion or wolf, built to stalk and conquer. She was a fawn: innocent, wary, and fleet of foot when feeling vulnerable. More than once Jaime's forays had hit a bit too close to their mark and sent her scurrying away to safety.

She was irritated less and less by him each day, by design on Jaime's part. He had an epiphany, one evening: attraction was one thing, but likingwas quite another, and no amount of handsomeness could overcome dislike if she decided he was too obnoxious to be stood. He wasn't exactly sure how to go about making his personality appealing, having relied for far too long on his looks, so it was a new experience for him, to hold back tart comments and jokes at her expense and his own.

He managed, however, and was glad to say that after another month had passed, Brienne seemed more pleased than otherwise when he arrived at where she'd be working that day. Her voice had less of an edge when she spoke, and with much wracking of his brain he'd even managed to find amusing things to say that didn't use anyone as their butt. He decided that her laugh, a rare and breathless thing that sounded like it had escaped despite her efforts to restrain it, was fast becoming his favorite sound.

It seemed that Clegane's condition was not improving as quickly as it might, so Brienne's performance as the Castamere gardener continued. But the breeze felt cooler each day, marking the passage of time, and Jaime knew it was only a matter of weeks before these balmy late summer days had passed. Soon, she'd be wrapping the rosebushes in burlap and stowing the potted things in the shed, rolling the lemon trees in their big tubs into the orangery, transferring the delicate perennials to boxes inside the greenhouse.

And then her job would be done, and she'd leave for the winter, and when it warmed again— when spring arrived and created work once more— it would be Clegane who answered the call. She'd go back to her island and he'd never see her again.

That would not do, if for no other reason than because he did not want to lose the first friend he'd made strictly by his own merits, not for his appearance or family or wealth. If nothing more developed, so be it, but… this rapport they'd built had become precious to him. He was loath to let it go.

One day, while sitting in the meadow to eat their lunch, Brienne fell silent and Jaime had the unnerving feeling she was staring at him.

"You— you know, jade is beautiful, too," Brienne said suddenly.

He frowned, uncomprehending. "Jade?"

"Yes. Different in its own way, but no less lovely." When he didn't answer— couldn't answer, was too busy puzzling her meaning— she continued, "Than emeralds."

Ah. She was referring to a conversation they'd had earlier, when he'd had a fit of self-pity and mocked the Lannister affectation in likening themselves to lions because of their golden hair and emerald eyes.

"Who cares if my eyes look like emeralds?" he'd sneered. "They see as well as emeralds, too. Worthless as a pair of rocks, just like the rest of me."

She hadn't replied, but a moment later he'd felt the press of her hand on his. Just for a moment, but he'd felt the warmth unabated for the rest of the day.

"Yes?" he therefore answered, wondered what she might mean, hoping she'd offer an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

"Yes."

And she stood up and left, just like that, no farewell or touch of her hand to his wrist as she usually gave when taking her leave of him. He listened to the wsssht wsssht of her legs through the wildflowers until the sound grew faint, then the far-off crunch of gravel, and he just sat there and thought about it— and her— for a long while.

When Bronn came to fetch him for dinner, Jaime was silent the whole walk back to the house. Inside, he took a seat at the table, from which wafted a variety of good smells. Clattering of silver on china meant Bronn was dishing up servings for them.

"What do my eyes look like?" Jaime asked him.

The clattering ceased.

"Your eyes?" Bronn asked guardedly. "What do they look like?"

"Yes."

Bronn did not reply right away, just finished portioning out their meals. A scrape of wood on wood said he was seating himself across from Jaime; a faint sloshing, that he'd taken a gulp of his wine.

"Are they still green?" Jaime prompted, but Bronn said nothing. "I won't be angry if you're honest about it."

"Did Brienne say something to you about them?"

Jaime felt a spark of irritation at being deflected. "Just tell me, dammit."

Bronn heaved a put-upon sigh. "They're… milky, I guess you could call them. Still green, but not clear. Did they used to look like your sister's?"

"Yes," Jaime said tightly. "Exactly."

"Lighter than that, then."

"Would you say like jade, then?"

"She did say something." Bronn paused again, took another sip of wine. "She shouldn't have."

"Why are you suddenly so bashful?" Jaime demanded, irritation growing at the nurse's reluctance. "I beg you to shut up, you don't stop talking for an hour. I ask your opinion and you won't say a word. Do you not like her? Has she done anything to you?"

"Look, mate, I don't dislike her. She hasn't done a thing. But you have to know your cunt family won't let you have anything to do with her."

"They don't have to see her, hidden out here as we are," Jaime said, surprising himself with how the desire for her company, for her affection, was blooming within him once he had the idea that it might be his for the taking.

He didn't care if she were ugly and mannish; what did appearance mean to him? Nothing. Less than nothing. For the first time in his life, he was seeing clearly, seeing past the false beauty his family had always cherished so dearly, their precious images and appearances, to the gold that lay beneath.

"They never have to meet her. They don't even have to know she exists."

"You think she'd accept a life as your secret mistress?" Bronn demanded, incredulity plain in his voice. "Go ahead, ask her, see how hard she punches you in thanks."

No, Jaime didn't think she'd appreciate such an offer, either.

"Besides, do you really think your fookin' family doesn't already know about her?" continued Bronn. "Besides Brienne, I'm the only servant here notspying for them."

Jaime had not considered that; oh, he'd known that there would be various staff reporting back to his father et al, but he'd thought he'd been more discreet in hiding his growing fondness of Brienne from them.

"You're not?" he murmured. "I'm touched."

Bronn growled. "Don't push me, Lannister, I'll still knock you on your ass."

Jaime gave a full-throated laugh. Thanks to Bronn's efforts at rehabilitation, he was in the best shape of his life, blindness notwithstanding, and had excelled at scrapping since childhood. Even blind, he could take anyone in a fight. "You can try."

Bronn huffed out a breath. "I've no doubt they already know about her, Jaime. And wouldn't be surprised if one of them were on their way here to do something about her, too."

Jaime jolted in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"Ten dragons says they think she's preying on you," retorted Bronn. "Taking advantage of how you can't see what she looks like, that she finds you an easy mark. She marries you, she's set for life. Woman like that would have no chance otherwise with a man like you. Wealthy, powerful family—"

"Handsome as a god," Jaime interjected, the jest automatic, a reflex against the doubt and anxiety the conversation was causing him.

"A beat-to-all-hells god, maybe," Bronn grumbled, and Jaime grinned. Tyrion had said that Bronn looked like their grandfather's old saddle, all creased brown leather. Many such men had been envious of Jaime over the years.

He had felt over his injuries at length, having had nothing else to do those first few weeks, besides despair. Scarred he might be, but the underlying features were still there, and even with his bandages, the nurses at the Citadel had flirted with him as madly as most women always had.

He reached for his face again, tracing the familiar paths and byways and feeling how they clustered more thickly around his eyes, bisecting his eyebrows. Under the damaged flesh, however, was bone, solid and dense, a rock upon which a palace had been built. But the palace had weathered a storm, had taken hard damage, no longer served its purpose of impressing others as well as it once had.

A thought occurred to him; the reason he was considered handsome was because of the shape of his bones, the angles and slopes and how they all fit together. Apparently Brienne's angles and slopes didn't fit together in an aesthetic manner, the way his did. But wasn't it all rather silly, that so much hinged on it?

It wasn't as if angles and slopes did anything; they didn't make a person stronger or smarter, not more talented or useful. They were just the things under the skin, performing the same function for everyone, just configured differently. Take that skin off— gruesome thought— and no one would be able to tell one person's face from another's.

"It doesn't matter," he said, wonder in his voice. He had the striking sensation that a hood had been snatched from his head and the world revealed to him in all its clarity. "How I look... how you look, how Brienne looks… none of it matters at all."

"What does matter, then?" asked Bronn apprehensively, as if reluctant of the answer.

And if they were all the same, under the angles and slopes, then what distinguished them from each other? If looks were irrelevant, how did you know a person? By their deeds and actions. By their words. A body decayed, after death, but what was everlasting? What did Lannisters boast of, after centuries? The derring-do of Lann the Clever, the history made by all those doughty Lannister kings. Deeds and actions and words, all of those together, an equation resulting in…

"What we leave behind," Jaime said at last. "When we go— from a room, from the world— what's left? Are people sad we're gone, or damned happy to see the last of us?"

When Brienne departed— granted, she often left Jaime just as annoyed and frustrated as he left her— but if he never met with her again, the lasting impression he'd have of her would be of kindness and grace, of the emotional kind, if not the physical. He wondered what her impression would be of him, were that afternoon the last time she saw him. Would he leave her thinking well of him, or muttering 'good riddance' and dusting off her hands, well shot of him?

"You can't tell, right now, but I am staring at you as if you've lost your mind," Bronn informed him. "I'm certain you have, you mad cunt."

"Oh, shut up," Jaime said absently. He realized that his dinner had been cooling as he'd sat there philosophizing, so he patted the table for his silverware and cutlery and dug in, chewing in contemplative silence while Bronn made futile, aborted attempts to converse about more mundane subjects.

When the meal was done, and the maid had cleared the table, Jaime took his wine glass with a few more sips left in it and counted paces until he was out on the veranda. The sea was as restless as he, that night, with waves crashing endlessly upon the shore below. It only felt right; why should the sea be calm when his mind was teeming?

"Here's what we'll do," he announced when Bronn had joined him, taking the other rocking chair. All they needed were pipes in their mouths and they'd be indistinguishable from a pair of grandfathers, rocking on the porch after supper. The idea tickled Jaime; maybe one day, it would be possible.

"Yeah?" the nurse replied, but grudgingly, with clear apprehension.

"If the family will try to keep us apart, we'll just have to take action so that it's a done deal by the time they try."

"Are you talking about marriage?" demanded Bronn, incredulous. "She want the same thing? Does she even know you're in love with her?"

"I'm not—" Jaime said automatically, but cut himself off. He was through with lying to himself. Yes, he was in love with Brienne. "No," he said at last. "She doesn't."

"Don't you think you should tell the poor cow?" Something squeaked to Jaime's left; Bronn had set his chair to rocking. "She'll need to know eventually. Can't spring a wedding on a girl. They don't appreciate it."

"Funny." But he was right; it was premature, rash even, for Jaime to think about marrying when Brienne didn't realize what she meant to him.

"If you mean to get it done before your mad sister or the rest come calling, you'd better get to it," Bronn advised, in the manner of a wise old sage, despite being one of the most disreputable men Jaime had ever met. He nearly pulled it off, too.

But he was correct in that, as well. Jaime had to talk to Brienne soon, immediately, tomorrow. If he'd been able to speak to her that moment, he would have, but he had no idea where she lived or how to contact her. The ramshackle old stone heap known as Clegane's Keep, most likely, but he didn't even know if they had a telephone. He could have Bronn drive him…

Jaime slouched in the chair, legs extended and crossed at the ankle, and sighed. No, it was moving too quickly, even for him; Brienne would be terrified if he just appeared at her home like a madman, declaring that they needed to be married as soon as possible. He imagined how the scene would go, her voice climbing higher and higher in disbelief and annoyance until she either shoved him out the door or slapped him.

Ah, wench , he thought happily. She was going to keep him hopping the rest of his life.

…if he could convince her to have him for it.

It would take time to get her used to the idea. She was as skittish as a wild colt, if her reaction to his flirting were any indication. He knew she was attracted to him, and fairly certain she cared for him. Was there a chance he could turn 'caring' into 'loving'? Or was he mistaken? Did she even care for him at all?

For a moment, Jaime despaired; he did not know how to go about winning a woman's heart if he couldn't see her, couldn't watch her reactions and know what was being received well and what was not.

A gust of wind rushed in from the sea and set the reeds and grasses and bamboo in the sensory garden to whooshing and thunking. The sensory garden that she'd put together for him, only for him, only to make him happy. There was a chance— possibly a good one— that she cared for him already.

He'd have to ease her into it, help her accustom herself to the idea that maybe she could love him.

Tomorrow would be soon enough. He'd start his campaign for her heart in the morning.

Jaime swallowed the last of his wine, closed his eyes, and basked in the night.


	5. Chapter 5

He put his plan into motion the very next day: when they walked together down one of the garden paths, instead of just holding her elbow as he'd become wont to do, he slid his hand down her arm to capture hers in a warm clasp. She jolted in surprise.

"…Jaime?" Said cautiously.

"This is much nicer, don't you think?"

"…nicer." Said flatly, in blatant disbelief, but she didn't pull away.

An hour later, he repositioned their hands, threading their fingers together.

"This is nicer too, hm?" Brienne asked, her tone dry, as if she knew exactly what he was up to and was merely humoring him.

"Don't you think so?" he replied blandly.

"…yes," she replied, grudgingly, her adherence to honesty preventing her from lying. However, she seemed content and even tightened her grip on him. Just a little, but it was enough for Jaime's heart to take flight. She wasn't fleeing from him, wasn't repulsed, was perhaps even receptive?

Only time would tell.

The next day he went right to the hand-holding, waiting for her to comment on it, but she said nothing. After a while, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it, right over her knobby knuckles. She froze, and for a moment he could actually hear her quick, shocked breaths while her hand trembled in his grasp.

Then she raised his hand and kissed it likewise.

If she had not already won his heart, that humble little gesture would have sealed the deal. Oh, Brienne, fair-minded and courageous, insisting on doing her share and bumbling past her insecurity to show him that he mattered to her.

I would die for you, he thought in that moment, and meant every word.

.

* * *

.

The next day, he kissed her. Drew her close with the hand he was holding, used the other to cup her cheek, guided her mouth to his. Slowly, slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away, shriek, punch him unconscious… but she did none of those. She only stood there, shaking and brave, while he moved his lips on hers. When he was done, he smiled against her, and his heart lifted when he felt her do the same.

Their second kiss, some hours later, was… more. Quite a bit more. Brienne's terror seemed to have lessened in the interim, and she opened, hesitantly but enough, when he made to use his tongue to kiss her more deeply. Her quick indrawn breath told him she was surprised by it, but the cautious stroke of her own said she didn't object. Just the opposite, he swiftly learned when her arms came around him and she pressed up close, closer than he'd thought he could manage with her just yet.

Relief crashed through him, and he made a bit free with his own hands, sweeping them over her broad back, clasping her waist, thumbs stroking her ribs.

"I like this," she murmured in his ear, and he laughed, wondering if he were glowing from the joy suffusing him.

.

* * *

.

Day three of Jaime's campaign to win Brienne, and it was going well. Their kisses had been passionate, deep, engrossing, and Jaime forgot himself enough to coast his hands up her body to cup her breasts. Brienne sucked in a breath and he froze, waiting, but then she melted against him.

Jaime wasted no time unbuttoning her shirt, delighted to find nothing underneath; no foundation garment, no camisole, not even an undershirt, just warm smooth skin, and all for him. His fingers skimmed along the shallow curve of the underside of her teats, then found the hard points of her nipples.

At first, he just rubbed over them with his thumbs, but he speedily progressed to pinching and then twisting— gently, always gently— at her favorable reaction while she gasped and arched against him. But he couldn't continue it forever, not the way they were straining and panting, didn't want to push her too far, and tapered his caresses and kisses until they could draw back from each other without aching in frustration.

"Jaime," she sighed, and he thought maybe she was almost as happy as he was.

.

* * *

.

His mouth was on her nipples, lavishing them with strokes of his tongue and nips of his teeth. Brienne's reactions to sexual pleasure involved her entire body: back arching, arms flexing, hands grasping. Her legs scissored in an effort to relieve the unattended ache between them. Jaime found he had to use considerable strength to keep her from writhing away from him, and at one point slung a leg over both of hers to restrain her from jostling him from where he lay half-over her.

Her breath caught. "Oh," Brienne whispered, barely audible.

Jaime hardened to the point of tempered steel against her hip, then wrapped an arm around her waist and clamped her to his side. Shifting his leg, he brought it around her closest thigh, imprisoning it, then shifted his knee up until he was able to press and slide it against her mound. She cried out, gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise, and ground against him until she stiffened and shook.

Jaime tore open his trousers and brought himself off, hurrying to tuck his cock away before Brienne realized what he was doing. It wasn't time for that, yet, and he'd intended this to be for her instead of himself, but her uninhibited reactions had him so wild he couldn't bear to wait until he could return to his room and finish there.

She trembled in his arms, breaths humid against his throat. He combed her hair with his fingers, soothed her with nonsense words, relished how she clung to him, like he was her lone mooring in a deep and turbulent sea.

.

* * *

.

"Can you… can you make that happen again? Like you did yesterday?" Brienne asked, murmured really, though according to her they were alone in the meadow and he'd reiterated to Bronn that no one was to bother them while they were ensconced among the wildflowers.

"Do what?" he asked, tugging and pinching her nipples. "This?"

"What you did with, with your leg," she said breathlessly. "Though… this is good, too."

"Ah, this?" Jaime slid his knee between her thighs, gave a long stroke against her center.

"Yessss." She thrust her hips up against him.

"I can do it better," he said to her breasts, taking one nipple between his teeth while playing with the other, a little roughly as he was learning she enjoyed.

She stilled for a moment, and when she replied, her voice was eager. "Better? Really?"

He was very gratified that she seemed skeptical, as if it were beyond the bounds of her comprehension that anything could be better than the blunt, imprecise stroke of his leg between hers. His hand left her breast to travel southward, slipping under the waistband of her trousers and smallclothes. Jaime felt the soft give of her belly, then a tangle of hair that he petted briefly before sliding his hand down to cup the entirety of her in his hand.

Brienne was so wet that his fingers were dampened right away. She gave a little hiccup of surprise but did not draw away, and Jaime gentled her with more attention to her nipples, until her thighs slackened and he could move his hand freely. She was warm and plump in the cup of his palm and he gave a firm squeeze, making her whimper into his hair.

Then he ran his fingers through her folds and she cried out in shocked excitement. "Jaime!"

He loved to her hear say his name any time, but with such innocent lust in her voice… he pressed himself as close as possible, rubbing himself against her hip while his finger traced along the edge of her inner lips, grazing the hard nub he found. Brienne bucked against him so vigorously she knocked him away and he lay flat on his back, laughing. After a moment, she joined him, and they just laughed together for a minute.

When had this ever been fun for him? She was giving him more than she could ever realize.

He rolled back to her, looming a bit, and would have been looking down at her if he'd been able to see.

"Ready for more?" he asked playfully, scattering kisses over her misshapen features before ducking down to nip at her collarbones.

"Yes, please," she said politely, prompting another laugh, but he duly returned his hand to where it had been.

"Try not to fling me across the meadow this time," he growled, mock angry, and drew a circle around her bud, feeling it swell and harden against his fingertip. It thrust insistently at him, demanding attention, and he could scarcely wait until he could take it in his mouth, lash it with his tongue, suckle it.

Brienne managed not to hurl him anywhere this time, but her grip on his arm was brutal. He was hers to mark, though, and relished any bruises she'd gift him with.

Jaime set his thumb against her nub and moved his fingers lower, finding the soft wet give of her opening. Brienne whimpered at the touch, rocked up to meet his hand, and he slid his longest finger inside. Oh, she was a furnace, a living flame, would scorch him to a cinder when he finally got to fuck her. She lurched her pelvis up to meet his penetration but he murmured for her to settle down.

"Or I'll have to stop," he added and took his hand away, an experiment— what would her reaction be? A confident 'no, you won't' as she replaced his hand where she wanted it? A pouty 'fine, be that way'?

Brienne froze, her breaths shallow. "No," she said, trembling. "Don't stop. I'll keep still."

Jaime closed his eyes against the tide of satisfaction that flowed over him. Oh, yes, he thought. This was… this was good.

He rewarded her with another finger, to her vocal delight. Her molten flesh wrapped around him so sweetly, and he whispered compliments into her ear, against her throat.

"You're so brave," he told her. "I know you're scared, but you're doing so well."

"I'm not scared," she replied, voice catching when he thrust the full length of his fingers into her. Her pelvis made a tight circle as she explored how they felt there. "Not of you."

"No?" he asked, pleased but also curious. "I could do anything to you, right now. Anything at all."

"But you won't," she said on a moan. "I trust you, too."

Jaime groaned. "Will you touch me? I'm going out of my mind." He paused, then added, softly, "It would make me very happy, Brienne."

One of her hands released his arm and traveled low on his torso, covering the front of his trousers, where his cock thrust insistently against the confining cloth. His hips shifted instinctively against her touch and he exhaled in relief when she unbuckled his belt and released him. He sprang eagerly into her hand, her fingers curling reflexively around him, lightly at first but then with more force, until he felt wrapped in a warm, living vice.

He felt like doing a little writhing, himself, at that point. "You're so good," he breathed. "So sweet, wonderful, the best girl I know, best woman I ever met."

Her gasps quickened; her hips pulsed up at where his fingers were plunging inside her, and then he felt her rippling around them with a low moan, rising in pitch. Just praising her made her come? He ground himself into the channel of her hand and kept his fingers moving through her climax.

"Jaime," she cried, thrashing against him, and it brought him over, spilling hot and sticky over her hand.

They gasped into each other's mouths as they recovered.

"Jaime," she repeated, and there was a note of wonder in her voice. "It's even better when you're— at the same time— also."

He slid an arm under her, hauled her against him, inhaling the scent of her: brine, grass, flowers. Brienne. How many times had he been expected to perform without even a promise of reciprocation? And she liked it more when she was giving to him, as well as receiving?

There are no other women like this, he thought. Only her.

.

* * *

.

"What color are you here?" he asked. Two fingers were buried to the hand in her, pumping sinuously as he tormented the swollen bud at the crown of her sex with his tongue. "Pink? Red?"

"I don't know," gasped Brienne, her entire body tense as she fought not to buck him off in a paroxysm of pleasure. "I never looked."

She'd nearly screamed at the first touch of his tongue on her aching flesh, then buried her hands in his hair and clasped his mouth against her as she'd undulated and rocked to meet his caresses. He loved the taste of her, the salt and musk, the suggestion of peaches and charcoal, but with his mouth occupied, he couldn't talk to her as easily, couldn't tease little admissions out from behind her inhibitions.

"Will you look?" He lavished a long, slow swipe up the crease between fleshy outer lip and the fragile, ruffled inner one. She groaned, long and guttural. He punctuated his request with a brief suckle to her nub. "Get a mirror and see how pretty you are, tonight, and then tell me tomorrow."

When she didn't answer, he prompted, "For me, Brienne?"

"Yes," she said on a blissful sigh. "For you, Jaime."

"So good," he told her. "So lovely."

Then he parted her with his thumbs and buried his mouth against her, sucking as much of her into his mouth as he could, tongue thrusting deep. With a wail, she lurched and came, clamping around his tongue and drenching his face.

.

* * *

.

"You seem to like how I taste," she ventured, shy and enchanting, before pressing her face against his neck.

They were just beginning, that day. Brienne had sought him out, ever earlier, until she was approaching him while he still dawdled over breakfast. Not that he was objecting; if he had his way, she'd never have left him the night before. He'd have woken her with his hand between her legs, rolled atop her, and fucked them both into a new morning.

Not yet , he thought. Almost. Another day, perhaps two, and he'd broach the idea of marriage.

"Yes," he replied, with force, making her laugh.

"Will I like how you taste?"

"Only one way to find out."

Soon thereafter, his cock was in her mouth and he was groaning helplessly as her tongue worked him. She was clumsy, yes, but it was to be expected for a first time at it. Jaime had no doubt she'd apply her determination and work ethic to the task the same way she did everything else. He hoped he survived the experience once she'd perfected her technique, because just this awkward combination of heat and wetness and suction was making his sanity slip.

He brought his hands to her head, to help her keep the rhythm, and she hummed in appreciation. Shortly thereafter he threaded his fingers in her hair, tugged the slightest bit, and she moaned around her mouthful, giving him a suspicion… He tugged a little harder, used his grip to hold her head for his thrusts, and she cried out around him.

She likes when I'm forceful , he thought dazedly, and the idea nearly made him spill right then. He held himself back, barely, and tested his theory further, keeping her head completely still as he fucked her mouth. Brienne cried out again, needy and wanting, and Jaime managed perhaps three more strokes before finishing down her throat.

"Jaime," she panted, and he practically flung himself upon her, kissing her deeply as he pressed her to her back, his hands hard as they pushed her legs wide. He slid down her body, licked her clean, then filled her with his fingers while she mewled and keened beneath him, shuddering in near-immediate climax.

He crawled up her body, dragged her into his arms, held her so tightly he could barely breathe. She clasped him just as hard. It was perfect.

"You're perfect," he informed her, very seriously, but she only laughed, thinking he was joking.


	6. Chapter 6

"I can never tell if you think I'm funny," Jaime complained late the next afternoon. "You almost never laugh."

They sat in the sensory garden by the big clay pot of strawberries Brienne had planted; their season was coming to an end and she and Jaime were gorging themselves before it became too cool and they withered. The smell of them was thick in the air, Jaime had a tiny seed stuck in one tooth, and he'd been on a roll describing how, in their youth, Tyrion had exchanged Cersei's hair-rinse, supposed to keep her golden hair from going brassy— whatever that meant— for dye and turning her precious curls coal-black.

He'd done credible justice to imitating Cersei's shrieks of rage and thought himself hilarious, but nary a peep had issued from the lips of his beloved.

"I don't laugh a lot," Brienne agreed. "I don't even smile much." Then, much more faintly, "I try not to."

Jaime frowned. "But… why?" He was endlessly fascinated and confused by Brienne, most of all by her extreme inhibitions in so many ways.

She was quiet a long while. He could hear the faint crunch of seeds as she ate more strawberries. It distracted him with thoughts of how kissing her would taste like the berries, how her lips would be stained red by their juice— as red as the luscious real estate between her legs, she had revealed one day with agonized mortification— how her nipples would be just as sweet.

Then she spoke, dragging his attention back to the matter at hand. "My teeth," she said at last. "I know you can tell. Or that Bronn has said something." There was humor in her voice. "He's not one to mince words."

No, he isn't. Bronn had indeed offered his opinion of her teeth. Jaime had not been amused by the nurse's thoughts on the matter.

"Well," he began, treading carefully, "are you missing any?"

"What?" She sounded startled, clearly not expecting that question. "No."

"Good." He smiled. Brienne confused was adorable. "Do they hurt? Trouble you overmuch?"

Puzzled silence. Then, "…no."

"And they do their job? Chew everything as they ought to?"

"Well, yes. Jaime—"

"Then it sounds to me like they're perfect." He leaned over and, only a bit off-center, managed to find her lips, drop a kiss on them. He couldn't resist a quick swipe of the tongue, to taste how the strawberries were on her mouth. Somehow, they were better than in his own.

Brienne makes everything better.

She didn't reply to that. He didn't push her, having learned over the months of their acquaintance that she was very careful in her responses, weighing all options before acting or speaking. Thinking back to how many times his quick temper and quicker tongue had gotten him into trouble, he could only admire her circumspection. If he'd thought more about what he was about to do, that day almost a year ago, the rest of his platoon might be alive. Arthur Dayne might still be alive.

Don't think about it, he admonished himself, but once that train of thought left the station, it was nearly unstoppable. Subdued, guilty, he just kept picking and eating strawberries, even after his stomach began to protest.

"You're very wise."

She whispered the words, or perhaps the reverence in them was such that they seemed hushed. But they made Jaime freeze, blinking in confusion, trying to make sense of them.

"I'm what?" And then he began to laugh; surely he had not heard her correctly.

"Stop that," she scolded, but he could hear a smile in her voice. "You are."

But he couldn't stop. It was the most ludicrous thing anyone had ever said to him, and Cersei spouted nonsense on a regular basis. This was leagues beyond any paranoid delusion his sister could come up with.

Brienne's hand came up to push up his chin, shut his mouth, end his laughter. "You are," she repeated, firm but gentle. "I worry and worry about how ugly I am, and then in one minute you can make it all just the stupidest thing in the world. You make me see how silly I am to hate my looks and how you're so—"

"Useless?" he interrupted, finishing for her. "Reliant on others for everything? A permanent burden? A waste of money and time?"

She sucked in a shocked breath. "No," she said, and sounded angry. "You're… a little reliant, by necessity, but the rest… no. Not useless. Not a burden. Not a waste."

Suddenly, he was in Brienne's arms, banding around him like steel. "Oh, how can you say any of that?" she muttered. "You make me so mad."

Jaime, shocked, slowly brought his own arms up to clasp her as well. "It's all true," he said weakly.

"It's not!" she exclaimed. She took his shoulders and pushed him away, presumably so she could look him in the face. Jaime ached to be able to do the same, to see her expression. "You… you talk all the time about how wonderful you think I am. How I'm the best person you know."

"But you are," he mumbled, still confused.

"Then how can you think of yourself like that when I love you?" she all but shouted. "If I'm so damned wonderful, then anyone I love is going to be, as well. Did you think of that?"

No. No, he had not. He felt dizzy, like he'd taken a hard knock to the head. Her words were echoing, repeating themselves into infinity. I love you, love you, you, you, you…

"Jaime?" Brienne's voice came from far away. "Jaime, you're— oh, no." Her arms came around him again, and he realized he was shaking. "What's wrong?"

He held her convulsively, frantically, breaths blowing hard like a horse pushed too far. Finally, he kept thinking. Gods, finally, finally.

"I love you, too," he managed when he was able to calm down enough to speak. He'd said the words before, many times, but it was the 'too' part that was so precious, had the weight of a king's ransom, was permeating his soul like water spilled onto a parched desert.

They held each other a long time, not speaking beyond an occasional hum of satisfaction. The sun began to set; Jaime could feel its warmth fade and twilight's coolness creep along in its wake, but Brienne was so warm. She burned away all the wrongness in him.

It was only when Bronn began calling for Jaime that they separated. Brienne took his hand in hers and brought it to her face. She'd let him feel it at his request, and he'd spent a fascinated hour exploring her angles and slopes, trying to figure out how they differed from his own, how they somehow marked her as 'ugly' when his were just the opposite.

But all he'd felt was soft skin, with the barest fuzz, like the velvet of a peach. He'd felt the long whisper of eyelashes she told him were as blonde as the hair on her head, eyebrows the same darker shade as what was between her legs, the dogleg shape of her nose, the heavy strength of her jaw, the plush and gorgeous mouth he wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing.

He liked touching her face, and did it often, and each time she was just as puzzled that he'd want to, but permitted it. On occasion, she'd even put his hand on her cheek, herself, just for the pleasure of his touch. This time, it seemed to have a purpose. She placed his palm on her cheek, fingertips just reaching into her hair and thumb at her lips, which were curved in a smile.

"There," Brienne said. "From now on, when I smile, I'll do this so you know."

But then her smile faded.

"The way you're looking at me, Jaime…"

It sent a spear of irritation through him. Why would she say such a thing when they were specifically talking about how he could not see?

"You do look at me, though you don't realize it," she insisted. "Your face… the expression on it… you look at me like I'm…"

"Like what?" he asked hoarsely, but she was smiling again, and shook her head.

"It's just wonderful, is all."

"Yeah, it's fookin' amazing," said a disgusted voice.

Jaime's mental equilibrium restored itself in the space of a heartbeat; Lannisters learned from the cradle how to shift and adapt on a dime. "Ah, Bronn, you found us."

"And I'm sorry I did," said the nurse. "Would have been less sick-making if I'd found you two fooking instead."

Wouldn't be the first time, either, meadows not being very conducive to privacy. Later on, Bronn had admitted that while her face was a horror story, her body… "Legs to crush a man, but what a way to die," was how he'd put it. Jaime had punched him, right in the nose, his pugilistic instincts unerring when it came to defending Brienne's honor.

"You're just jealous," Brienne told him loftily, standing. Jaime stood, too, and kissed her a last time before they parted for the evening. No matter how he asked, she always refused to stay beyond working hours, not even just to share their dinner. She put his hand on her face to show him she was smiling as she said goodbye, and then was gone, quiet despite her size.

"Mate, you two are disgusting," Bronn told him.

"Yes," said Jaime, his own smile feeling as if it shone like a star. "We really are."

.

* * *

.

Jaime deflowered Brienne quite by accident, one sunny morning in the meadow. She was responding so beautifully to his fingers, sighing, arching up to take them deeper, moaning his name in the most delightful way, that he didn't stop to think, just kept adding more. She gave a lustful whimper at the third, but on the fourth she yelped and twitched away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said automatically. He'd been trying so hard, so hard, to show her he wouldn't be a burden to her, that he could hold his own— in some things, at least— and the lack of mishaps during sex thus far had heartened him. In this, at least, he pulled his weight, didn't need her guiding him, could take the lead and do for her instead of having to rely on her like a child.

But no. He'd been too rough and clumsy. Despite his cautious joy at his success to that point, the fear that his blindness would cause her injury at some point, the knowledge that he'd fail her eventually, had been realized. The familiar mantle of self-loathing settled yet again upon his shoulders and he sat up, rummaging through the crushed wildflowers around them for their clothes.

"Where are you going?" Brienne asked, her voice thick and slow with desire. Still? How?

"You can't want to continue," he muttered. "I hurt you."

She seemed to realize something was wrong, and sat up as well. "Jaime, isn't it supposed to hurt, the first time?"

And then he felt like a crashing fool. Well, of course that's what that was, he thought stupidly. His shoulders sagged in relief and he lowered himself back between her legs, pillowing his head on her thigh, arms up around her hips.

"It was always going to be yours," she continued, very matter-of-factly, "so does it really matter when?"

"Some would say so, yes," Jaime muttered, feeling a bit dazed at how in-stride Brienne was taking the matter, and in no small amount affected by how utterly she seemed to belong to him: no doubts, no apprehension. Her generosity of self, her devotion… again, he was gripped by the conviction that he did not deserve this.

She doesn't know, he thought miserably. Not about Major Dayne, not about Cersei. I have to tell her.

Once he told her, she'd know all the raw ugliness inside him, know he wasn't worthy of her. But he had to reveal it, he had to; she kept saying how strong and brave he was, seeing something in him that no one ever had, not even himself. Jaime buried his face against her belly, inhaling the thick sweet musk right by his face, soaking in the heat and life of her, trying to postpone it as long as possible.

Brienne shifted, slid her leg out from around him, pulled him close. "Tell me," she said, again displaying that uncanny intuition she had, picking up on his cues as no one else could.

So he did. He told her about Cersei first; it was older, that wound, and hurt less; the scar over it had toughened enough not to ache when he prodded it.

"But… it's over?" was all she said, when Jaime finished. At his nod, she gave his hand a hard squeeze. "Then it's over."

He just sat there in a stupor for a moment. Could it really have been that simple? A lifetime of forbidden love between siblings, and because it was done with, that was fine?

"There's more," he forced through numb lips. "About why I'm blind… what happened…"

Slowly, haltingly, he revealed to her the pitched battle in a trench outside of Myr, the flying bullets, the choking fog of gas… Colonel Targaryen's order to evacuate, how he'd ignored that order to go, by himself, in pursuit of Major Dayne.

"He was already dead," Jaime rasped. "The gas. I didn't get my mask on in time— that's how— my eyes. I heard the shelling start, I could barely see, but I ran back, I had to save my men— but they were… all of them, they were— because I'd left them there, I sacrificed all of them to save one man who was already dead! And then a shell hit, right in front of me, the shrapnel—"

Slowly, carefully, Brienne drew him into her arms, and he just shook in her embrace for what seemed like forever.

"So I failed," he said at last. "The colonel died, and Major Dayne died, and my men died."

"But you didn't, and I'm glad, and if I ever hear you say you wish you had, I'll hit you."

Jaime put his face in his hands and laughed, desperately at first, then with more humor as he realized that everything that had happened had put him on this path to Brienne. If he hadn't lost his sight, he'd never have been stowed away at Castamere, would have never met her. At that very moment he would have still been fighting a pointless war for rulers who didn't give a damn about any of them.

If he had the choice, would he have done the same? If he'd known, on that fateful day… if he'd obeyed the colonel and evacuated, there was every chance he'd still be able to see, wouldn't have the thin silvery lines snaking over his face and everywhere else. But there was also every chance he'd have died in a different battle, or had some other horrific but non-fatal injury occur— lost a leg or, worse, a hand.

Brienne curled her fingers around his nape, slid them across his shoulder, a trail of warmth lingering in her wake. Then back up to sink them into his hair, stroking and petting. She offered him acceptance and love, wordlessly, unconditionally. She was the greatest gift Jaime had ever been given and he knew, right then, that if he could make that choice, if he'd known what he stood to gain— lose his sight, find Brienne— he'd still have done it.

Somehow, the knowledge lifted a great weight from him, and he sagged in her embrace. "I'm exhausted. That was more tiring than I'd expected."

Brienne laughed as she drew him back down to their bed of wildflowers, lavished kisses upon his forehead and cheeks and jaw until he laughed, too.

"Now I know everything," she said. "And you've taken my virginity."

"In a manner of speaking," he agreed, nuzzling against her throat.

"Now that that's done, is there really any reason to put off the rest?"

The rest? Jaime thought, and then, oh. She meant fucking. He wanted to fuck Brienne— rather desperately— but he also wanted to do things right, whatever 'right' might happen to be. He seemed to have acquired, somewhere along the way, a notion that they should be married before he took her the first time, that any conception taking place would occur between them as husband and wife, that there would never be anything sordid or shameful where Brienne was concerned.

She deserved the best, but since she only had Jaime, he'd give her his best, such as it was. If that meant he'd make do with only her mouth— though 'only' was a bit of a misnomer, since the feel of her lips tight around his cock, of her tongue soft on the head and hands warm on his balls, was pure magnificence— then so be it.

This was it, then, the moment where he had to declare himself and ask. Jaime had agonized over when would be the right time, then decided the right time would reveal itself, and clearly it just had.

"I—" he began, then stopped to clear his throat, feeling unsure in a wholly new and awful way. She loved him, he believed and trusted that, but would she want to be saddled with him for the rest of her life? She was still so young, over a decade younger than he, and Lannisters lived a good long time; she would have to put up with him for at least forty more years—

"Jaime?"

"I love you," he began.

"I know." Said shyly, and she brought his hand to her face so he knew she was smiling, happy. "I love you, too."

His heart shimmered in his chest. Words burst from him, unplanned, overeager, clumsy. "Every time you leave for the night feels like I've gone blind all over again. When you come back in the morning, it's like I can see again. I never want to be apart from you."

He had no idea where the words were coming from, but he meant them with everything he had.

"Jaime…" she said, her voice filled with wonderment.

"Please marry me," he managed to finish, only barely keeping from adding another please at the end, perilously close to begging.

"Why are you so nervous?" she asked instead. "Of course I will." Said comfortably, as if the answer were so obvious that it was stupid to even have to ask in the first place. "Where's my ring?"

Jaime was so relieved, he went a bit lightheaded. "Hm, it's on me here somewhere," he said, patting down his chest… his nude chest: he hadn't a stitch on him, nor did Brienne, and she laughed as he'd intended, so he pressed her back into the wildflowers and wrapped himself around her until she couldn't move an inch and was panting with desire.

They made love there for the first time, and afterward, Brienne described to Jaime the shapes of the clouds drifting by overhead. His bliss was total.

Which was, of course, when his father arrived.


	7. Chapter 7

To say that Tywin Lannister was displeased in Jaime's choice of bride was to put it ethereally lightly. Even that most stoic of men could not entirely restrain his shock upon meeting Brienne, his usually flat voice exhibiting actual emotion when he demanded, "Surely you're _joking_ , Jaime."

Jaime balled his hands into fists and rued taking things so slowly; as soon as he'd known Brienne loved him, he should have begun his campaign to wed her, instead of just submerging himself in the pleasure he'd found with her. They could have been married for weeks, making it far too late for Tywin to do anything about it, but—

"No," he said calmly. He and Brienne had discussed it in the hurried few minutes they'd had to get dressed and rush back to the house, and agreed that giving rein to their (Jaime's) temper would not suit their (Jaime's) goal of placating his father enough to, at the very least, buy them the time they needed to get to a septon and be married. "I'm not joking. We've found we're very compatible, in the time I've been here, and Brienne has honored me by accepting my proposal."

Anger swelled in the space between them, but Tywin's meticulous control reigned supreme, as always.

"I see," he said tightly. "Miss Tarth. Who are your people? Are they related to the ruling house of Tarth?"

"Yes, ser," she replied carefully. "My father is the Evenstar, and I am poised to inherit upon his passing."

"And it prospers?"

"I believe so, ser, or it did when I was last there, some months ago."

"So if I were to offer you a substantial sum to leave Castamere this very minute and never return, you would refuse."

Brienne's hand clamped on Jaime's so hard it hurt, and then just as quickly eased.

"Yes, ser," she said. Her tone was exquisitely polite. "You don't have enough wealth to persuade me to leave Jaime." She paused, then added, "No one does."

Offended silence fell and Jaime almost laughed at how incomprehensible Brienne must seem to his father; not merely unattractive in the extreme, but bafflingly resistant to his best efforts at bribery.

 _And_ extortion, it seemed, because Tywin had plunged ahead with, "And if I made life very difficult for your father and Tarth? Purchased any debts he might have, bought up any available real estate and businesses? Arranged for the docks to remain empty, prevented trade, even transportation?"

He would do it, too; if not with influence, he'd simply purchase everything and do as he liked. He'd even end the ferry service, effectively trapping the people of Tarth on their fair isle.

But Brienne only said, with deep serenity, "Then my father and Tarth will persevere and overcome as we always have." Then she very gently added, "We're not in the habit of bowing to despots and bullies, ser."

Jaime's heart sang; it opened white-feathered wings and took flight. _Our children are going to be warriors_ , he thought, no small amount awed by her. _Our children are going to be_ _heroes_.

"You will leave Castamere immediately," Tywin intoned, his voice gelid.

"I'm glad to leave," Brienne replied. Her tone was quiet, almost respectful, even if her words were not. "I'll go right now."

Jaime felt his mouth go dry at the implication of her response: she was leaving. She was leaving him. He remained in the chair, relieved for its support, because his entire body felt boneless, like his skeleton could no longer hold him up. He couldn't blame her; he didn't want to be related to Tywin or Cersei, either.

Desperate, he reached out for her, trying in vain to take her hand, to snatch a bit of her shirt, anything to tether her to him. _Don't go,_ was on his lips. _Don't go without me_. And he was about to say them, to reveal himself as the pathetic fool he was, when her hand tightened on his once more.

"Jaime?" she said, squeezing. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I did not mean you were going just for the night," Tywin said. "Once you leave here, you will not return. And you may tell your uncle his services are no longer needed here or at the Rock."

Jaime heard a creak of leather. His father must be standing. He always did prefer to stand when he was about to destroy something.

"Did you imagine all would continue as it has been?" Tywin continued, with that casual tone that had always put Jaime in mind of a snake, lazing in the sun but coiled to strike. "That I'd let you remain here, working your…" He paused for maximum insult. "…seductions and charms on my heir with impunity?"

"If we were married, I'd remain here as his wife," she replied. "Though I'd be happy to keep doing the gardening. I enjoy it."

Silence. Jaime knew that, if he could see, his father would have shot him a glance filled with disbelief and scorn: _could she possibly be this naive?_ the glance would have asked.

 _Yes_ , Jaime would have replied. _She's naive because she's good and kind and generous and honest, and expects everyone else to be, too._

"If?" he croaked. " _If_ we were married?"

"When," she corrected, bringing his hand to her face, pressing it to her cheek so he could tell she was smiling at him. "I should have said _when_ we're married."

"And if I withdraw all financial means?" asked Tywin, still nonchalant. He sounded as if this matter were of no consequence whatsoever. "Will you still have him then, if you have to support him? You'd happily take on that burden?"

Silence, terrible and cacophonous, dropped like a stone between them. Jaime's chest felt carved out, hollow as a drum, as he waited for Brienne's response.

Her hand held his so tightly it ached, but he'd gladly take a broken finger or two if it meant she wasn't caving to his family's emotional blackmail.

"I would have Jaime if he came to me with only the clothes on his back."

She said it firmly, adamantly, and abruptly his heart and lungs began to function once more. It seemed Brienne was done with manners and attempting any sort of accord with Tywin.

"He's not a burden," she continued, coldly furious. "He's your _son_. Do you really see no reason besides wealth or connection to your horrible family that someone might want to marry him?"

"Yes, he's handsome," Tywin acknowledged, and Jaime knew he was giving some dismissive wave of the hand. "But looks fade, and—"

"Strength doesn't fade," Brienne interrupted. "Courage and honor don't fade."

Tywin didn't answer. Jaime desperately wished he could see the expression on his father's face, have some idea what he was thinking.

"You don't see it," she said softly, her tone incredulous. "You think Jaime was running away, that he only survived because he turned coward and fled the battle."

That was the last scrap of what Jaime had hidden, the last splinter through his spine, the last indignity on top of all the wretchedness comprising what had happened and resulted from the battle at Lys: everyone thought him the sole survivor because he'd deserted, because he hadn't been present when the rest of his company was being blown into a fine mist by the enemy.

"Is there proof to the contrary?" asked Tywin, sounding bored. "Because—"

"It's written all over his face!" Brienne nearly shouted. "The scars are on his front, Mr. Lannister, on his _face_. If he'd been running away, they'd be on his back."

She tossed the words between them, ice-cold stones dropping into a freezing ocean. Jaime had to swallow hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. She wasn't parroting the account he'd given her. She was using the evidence she'd deduced on her own, something it had never occurred to him to use to bolster his innocence.

Not that he'd wanted to bolster anything; as far as he was concerned, it all _had_ been his fault; what did it matter if people hated him for the wrong reason? They should still hate him if they knew the right one.

The way she was fighting his father, fighting for _him_ … he didn't care if Tywin believed him; Brienne did. That was all that mattered. But… he wanted to say it, to have the air clear, at least once.

"Arthur— Major Dayne— was out there. He'd gone in first, like always, with only two others. I'd wanted to go with him, but he wouldn't let me. Said the men needed someone they could rely on to get them out of there if he fell."

Arthur, who'd believed in him. Arthur, who'd gotten him that promotion to captain despite Tywin's wishes because Jaime deserved it, had earned it, wanted it like nothing else. Arthur, who had taught him, kept him from bearing the brunt of the colonel's madness, whose bravery had inspired Jaime in ways no one else ever had. Suddenly, Jaime felt desperate to make Arthur proud, at least one more time. Would Arthur have tried to placate Tywin out of fear of losing his financial support? Or would he have chosen to leap into the breach, knowing that doom was imminent but that it was the right thing to do, and thus no choice at all?

Who cared if he was cut off from the Lannister wealth? They'd go to Tarth, he and Brienne. There had to be _something_ he could do without his sight, some way to earn a living that didn't require him to sell his soul. Every gold dragon his family possessed seemed to him as deadly and dangerous as a real dragon; it poisoned and destroyed, scouring away every last glimmer of decency and honesty and trust. Money and lust for power had stripped away the humanity from the Lannisters, left them slavering beasts that knew nothing but slaking their hunger for more, more, more, and still it would never be enough.

Brienne had saved him so much more than she knew, more than she would ever know.

"Arthur Dayne was the only one who ever saw any worth in me beyond what I could do for them," he said at last, and squeezed Brienne's hand, then brought it up for a grateful kiss. "Him, and now you. So if you will have me with only the clothes on my back… let's go. Right now."

She kissed his hand in return, as always, and it filled him with gladness, as always. Linking their arms, Brienne guided him from the room, leaving his father speechless behind them. Counting paces, he could tell when they turned down the hall, when they entered the kitchen, when they departed the house through the side door.

"We'll go to Clegane's Keep for the night," she said, once they were in the ramshackle old truck and clattering down the road. "We can leave tomorrow for Tarth, and be there in a few days."

He didn't reply right away, his head awash in a disbelieving sort of elation. He was free. He would be with Brienne, always. He was going to live on Tarth. He was going to be _happy_.

"Jaime?" she said, sounding the slightest bit worried. "I'm sorry if— I answered for you, back there— are you sure…?"

""I wish you'd been in the service with me," he informed her. "You'd have been the finest soldier in a generation. In _two_ generations. The war would have been over within months. No one would have been able to stand against you."

Silence, for a beat, and then her warm hand was on his. "Jaime, you idiot," she said with immense affection. "What sort of foolishness is this?"

Our children are going to be legends," he continued as he threaded their fingers together. "They're going to save the world."

Her hand withdrew, and then he felt the truck downshift and slow. Smooth pavement gave way to uneven gravel on the side of the road, and then to grass, as she pulled to the verge. The old engine clunked as it was shoved into 'park' and then Jaime was in her arms.

"Stop talking nonsense," she murmured against his lips, between kisses. "Our children are going to be perfectly normal."

It happened that they were both right. Their sons and daughters _were_ perfectly normal— as normal as any children of Jaime Lannister and Brienne Tarth could ever be— but they were _different_ , as if special fates had been bestowed upon them all, as if they'd been just as destined for greatness as their father had always known. They all pursued different avenues, but each duly changed the world in their particular way, and that legacy passed down to their own children when the time came.

Jaime sat on Evenfall Hall's porch overlooking Shipbreaker Bay and lit his pipe. The kids and grandkids had all invaded that morning, intent on celebrating his and Brienne's fortieth anniversary with all due enthusiasm and effort. He loved having them there, but gods, they were noisy. After their youngest had left home, he and Brienne had gotten accustomed to the quiet and peace of having the place to themselves, if one did not count the help.

With the advent of their offspring that day, the Hall was seething with humanity and it was especially confusing to Jaime, since he couldn't see the faces surrounding him. He suspected some of the people in his home, that day, weren't even related to him.

Brienne joined him before too long, as always giving a pointed little cough to indicate her disapproval of the pipe, and as always Jaime ignored her, grinning around its stem at his wife.

"When is everyone leaving, again?" he asked her, then grinned wider when she tsked at him.

"You'd bawl your head off if any of them left," she said, her hand bringing his to her face so he could tell she was smiling. The cheek he cupped was lined, as his was, but as soft as ever, as beloved as ever.

"You're not going overboard, are you?" he asked, giving her lips one last caress with his thumb before leaning back in his rocking chair and setting it into lazy motion. He'd said it casually, but real concern was beneath it; Brienne had had a cardiac 'incident' the previous year and been warned not to overextend herself.

"I sit around like a queen, giving orders to the platoon of servants you've insisted on hiring," she said dryly. "They'd carry me around in a sedan chair, if I let them."

"You _should_ let them," said Jaime. "I hired six of them for just that reason. If you don't put them to work, they're being paid for nothing."

"Ah, so that's why all I ever see them do is stand around and flirt with the maids," Brienne murmured.

"As long as they don't flirt with you." He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed the back of it.

"They're more likely to flirt with _you_ ," she shot back before lifting his hand for her own kiss. "Everyone is. You should have seen the look Tyrion's new girlfriend gave you when they arrived. I thought I'd have to fight her for you."

He gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. Their eldest grandson was barely sixteen, the very spit of Jaime when he'd been that age, according to the boy's namesake, and Jaime could still clearly recall his own looks in youth. He thus had great difficulty believing that any teenaged girl would eye him as he was now when she could have him as he'd been in his burgeoning prime.

"Oh, you laugh," Brienne said, a smile in her voice, "but you've only been getting more and more handsome with each year. Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone is crazy, then," he said. His hair had grayed, she'd told him, gone a warm silver first in his beard and then on his head, and he had wrinkles on his forehead and between his eyes and bracketing his mouth. His middle wasn't as trim as it had been, and decades of enjoying the beach with his family had left his skin a bit more like his grandfather's saddle than he might like.

"Not as crazy as you might think," Brienne grumbled. She was still out-of-sorts from last year, when the new housekeeper had thought to offer Jaime a service not typically provided by one of her station.

General consensus had been that the woman had to have been critically stupid, because any fool could tell the lady and gentleman of the house were mad for each other, even after being so long married. She had been terribly offended when Jaime had laughed at her suggestive flirting so hard he'd cried, but those escorting her off the premises after Brienne had fired her told her it was her own damned fault for not paying attention.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Jaime said cheerfully. "I've never had eyes for anyone but you since the day we met."

It was a stupid, terrible joke that Jaime enjoyed telling for the reactions it garnered— people were not accustomed to blind people jesting about their situations, apparently— and Brienne gave it the same groan she had been giving it for the past forty years.

"When will you stop telling that joke?" she asked, her tone mild but weary. "Honestly, Jaime."

"The kids love it."

"The kids _hate_ it. They just love _you_ , so they pretend to laugh."

He smiled and reached his hand out to her. "We raised a good family, didn't we?"

"We did." He heard the smile in her voice as she took his hand and wove their fingers together. "Just as much thanks to you as me, Jaime," she said, forestalling his continued surprise that he'd somehow managed to be a good father despite lacking one himself.

"Anything good in me is thanks to you, wench," he murmured, eyes closing as he leaned his head back against the chair.

Brienne only huffed. " _This_ again."

"Again?" Jaime smiled, basking in contentment. "I think you mean 'still'. You'll always be the best part of me."

Brienne grumbled, as she always did, while he grinned, but then surprised him by standing and tugging on his hand until he got to his feet.

"I have a different idea about what the best part of you is," she whispered as she buried her face against his neck, still shy even after all those years.

"You'll have to work hard to convince me," said Jaime, aching with love and happiness as he began to lead his wife through the unlit hallways to their bedroom.

"I think I'm up to the challenge," Brienne replied, a smile in her voice.

And she was.


End file.
